


In Partibus Infidelium

by quercus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-01
Updated: 1999-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:05:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully investigate a serial sexual murderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Partibus Infidelium

**Author's Note:**

> Violence and cruelty in this story. No character death, but several people we know and love are injured, both physically and psychologically.
> 
> For Geoffrey, without whose help this story would never have been completed.

_ora pro nobis_

"I'll tell you a thing or two," he whispers, stroking her silken long hair. She stares at him, silent under the thick cloth wadded into her dry mouth, unwilling to listen, unable to not.

"The angels love you. They call you -- do you hear them? Crystal chimes in a gentle wind. They love and want you with them." He kisses her forehead. She closes her eyes briefly, then opens them to see him raise the knife again.

"Go to them," he whispers even more softly. The knife flashes down and Skinner flails out, striking his hand hard against the headboard. Heart pounding, throat parched, he struggles to consciousness, shaking off the evil nightmare.

Shake it off.

He swallows with difficulty, and gets out of bed to refill his water glass. His hand throbs; he's bruised the knuckles. Twice this week he's had that dream; three times this month. It's too much.

* * *

"My mommy's with the angels now," the little girl says to Scully, who kneels next to her. "See? Here she is. I drew the angels."

"I see them," Scully tells her, tracing the figures with her finger. "These are the angel's wings, right? Where's your mommy?"

"Here." The little girl points to what looks to Scully like a tornado: crayoned black spirals. "She's going to heaven now."

Scully nods. The little girl looks up at her. She looks like a stereotypical angel: wide-set blue eyes and milk-white hair. Non angli, sed angeli.

"Are there bad people in heaven?" Scully knows what the little girl is really asking.

"There are no bad people in heaven," she reassures the girl, gently touching her soft hair. "Your mommy is safe there." The girl nods sagely, and returns to her picture, coloring the angel's wings blue.

Scully stands and straightens her back. She is tired. They are at the Indianapolis home of the fifth victim of a serial sexual killer, on loan from the Criminal Investigative Division to Violent Crimes. She doesn't like VCU cases, and doesn't understand why Skinner agreed to loan out Mulder to them. Their own caseload is heavy. Mulder escaped VCU once before. She worries about him.

Across the room, from where he sits with the homicide detectives assigned to this case, he looks up at her and briefly smiles. I'm okay, he's signaling, but she doesn't smile back. She loves Mulder and she knows how fragile he is. Tall, handsome men aren't always what they appear to be.

* * *

The little girl's mother had been kidnapped and kept alive for several days, during which time she had been vaginally and anally object- raped; only water had been found in the vagina and rectum, no semen. She had been ritually bound with nylon rope as part of an elaborate pre-murder fantasy that involved careful, almost surgical cutting of the breasts and the skin above the backbone. Post-mortem, the offender had masturbated into the wounds.

Scully cannot imagine a more terrible way to die: alone with the murderer, slowly bleeding to death, life slipping away like the shore as a soul sails into the west.

She hasn't told Mulder, but she cannot sleep. She is afraid to turn out the light, close her eyes, risk the danger that unconsciousness would bring. She reads until her eyes burn and tear, watches television with the sound off, writes in a journal she looks forward to burning, and lies in bed trying not to imagine herself as one of these women. She knows he would understand, would offer to stay with her and protect her from the dreams she fears, but she cannot do that to him. She cannot add to the burden he carries.

They've been in Indianapolis three weeks now; this is the first murder since they've arrived. The police have been welcoming and friendly; it's obvious they feel out of their depth and want someone else, the FBI, to take responsibility. To take the heat. Mulder has been good with them, patient and thoughtful. Scully's been impressed with his patience, and wishes he'd exhibit that trait more often; she hadn't been sure he'd possessed it. But he understands the local police's frustrations and, more than that, he wants to catch this monster. Good relations with the police will be vital to any success.

When Scully leaves the autopsy bay, she knows little more than she did before she entered. The previous murder victims had been carefully autopsied, and the results are almost identical. Lots of forensic evidence: skin under the victim's fingernails, several short blond hairs, a latent print under the right armpit. She already knows nothing will come of this evidence. She has begun to believe that only luck or old age will stop this murderer.

Mulder is waiting for her, in a small office the local medical examiner has loaned her. He is sitting in a ladderback chair, head against the wall, eyes closed. He looks exhausted, thin, dirty. Something warns him of her presence and he opens his eyes and smiles at her. She has to fight an impulse to embrace him; tears fill her eyes and she turns away, pretending some busywork at the battered metal desk. She feels so sorry for him, so sorry for herself, so sorry for the victims and their families and their friends and their communities and the entire, weighted, oppressed, damaged world.

"Hey," he says softly and with concern, and slowly rises from the chair. She sees again how thin he is becoming and, swallowing back her misery, smiles at him.

"We should eat." He makes a face at her comment, so she reaches across the desk and takes his hand. "Mulder, as a physician, I'm telling you to eat something. A sandwich? Yogurt?" His cool fingers squeeze hers and he smiles.

"You're the doctor, Doctor. Lead on." There's a grocery story a few blocks away; the walk will do them good and they can pick up something to eat as they work. She leads him out of the morgue and into the startling normality of the world outside.

* * *

Noshing bagel chips, Mulder flips through printouts of his reports and copies of the police's work. For each of the five victims, Mulder has analyzed the crime scene information; the composition of the neighborhood in which she lived; the victim's last activities; the medical autopsy; and the crime investigation. He has sorted the reports so he can compare the victims with each other, to find the similarities and the differences. His remarkable memory is helpful; there is so much information in his hands. He stacks the types of reports into five piles, one for each victim, a photograph of the victim on top of each pile. He stands, hands in pockets, and hunches over the table, moving from pile to pile, from photograph to photograph.

Scully can almost hear him thinking. She watches him in some concern. These types of cases are so horrific, the photographs from the crime scene and the autopsies so frightening, she doesn't wonder why he sleeps so little. His dreams must be filled with women flayed alive, screaming and screaming and screaming.

She shivers, and tries to shake off the images in her head. As a pathologist, she is accustomed to the many and inventive ways one human can cause another to die. But to imagine so many beautiful young women tortured in the same macabre way is very different from the careful process of an autopsy. She sighs, and approaches Mulder.

Gently touching his elbow, she says, "Let's take a break, Mulder. I need to get out of here." He turns to look at her, almost surprised at her presence. His glasses reflect the fluorescent lights; he pushes them back up his nose, then takes them off.

"You're right. I need a break, too." They leave the conference room after locking up the evidence and records; they are too valuable. Someone might be tempted to sell one of the autopsy or crime scene photographs to Entertainment Tonight, and the producers would be sick enough to share it with the world.

They walk in silence, out of the field office; Scully gestures to the left and they start down the sidewalk. It's early afternoon. People are just starting to get off work and the streets are filling. A few doors down is a coffee house, the Leaping Goat. Mulder holds the door open for her and the rich, heavy smell of roasting coffee beans pours out. She sniffs with pleasure and smiles at him.

At the counter where they order is a display of delicate pastries. Mulder has begun losing weight, as he so often does on these cases; she points out the miniature cakes and cheesecakes. He raises his eyebrows in interest and motions toward the chocolate truffle cake. She nods.

At a small, wobbly table near the window, they sip their lattes and take turns picking at the cake. It is exquisite. A hard thin shell of chocolate covers a moist chocolate cake filled with a dense chocolate ganache. Mulder has to remove a maroon ribbon tied around the circumference of the cake; on the top surface is a latticework of milk chocolate sprinkled with tiny silver balls. The first bite is the most difficult; it's almost vandalism to insert the tines of a fork, but the flavor is so intense Scully forgets about the pretty exterior and eats with pleasure.

"This is a metaphor," Mulder surprises her with, speaking with his mouth full. He sips his latte and smiles at her. She raises an eyebrow in inquiry. "For people, I think. We all have this thin hard exterior," and he gently taps on the shell, "but the slightest push and it gives way." He demonstrates, revealing the cake beneath. "What's inside is always a surprise. Sometimes it's wonderful, like this." He looks straight into Scully's eyes. "Like you. But sometimes it's rotten. Like the murderer." He stops, freezing in place for a moment.

Scully puts down her fork; she doesn't feel much like eating anymore. She recognizes that Mulder has made some connection that he will need to articulate. She waits.

A frown creases his face as he struggles with the image. Finally, he says, hesitantly, almost shyly, "He's beautiful. The murderer. Just like the women." He looks at Scully and says with great confidence, "He's a beautiful man. Blond hair, blue eyes, just like his victims. But inside." He stops, says no more.

Scully has no doubt that Mulder is right. They sit at the table, surrounded by people buying dessert for special dinners, ordering coffee for their drive home, discussing papers for school, gossiping about absent friends; they sit surrounded by strangers, any one of whom may be harboring fantasies of indescribable cruelty, longing to shred flesh, to shatter bone, and to watch blood and life seep from their victims. She shudders. Death she can understand. An autopsy holds no terror for her. But sometimes life is too overwhelming.

Mulder intuits her distress and reaches across the table to take her hand. She looks into his kind face and smiles, trying to reassure him in turn. Finally, she says, "Drink your coffee, Mulder." He nods and obediently picks up the cup.

Back to work.

* * *

After reviewing the photographs, video tapes, diagrams, and notes from the last murder scene, Mulder and Scully decide they need to see it. As always for this particular offender, the scene is a dumping ground; he tortured, murdered, and mutilated the victim elsewhere. Mulder hopes that by visiting the site, he will be able to deduce where the murder took place. Scully believes he already has some ideas, but she knows him well enough not to question him at this point.

The dumping ground is just that: a dump. Scully has learned enough about serial killers now to read meaning into that fact; the offender views his victims as garbage to be disposed of. She feels an enormous anger swelling in her chest, like indigestion, like a heart attack. She actually has to press her hand against her sternum.

The area is still blocked off, a cordon sanitaire strung around a twelve foot by twelve foot area. Tire tread had been found nearby, and photographs and casts made of it; unfortunately, it was for a common, inexpensive tire for mid-size automobiles. Mulder is standing outside the cordon, unwilling to contaminate the scene any further. He stares almost sternly at the site, as if to force it to release its bloody secrets.

What no one except Mulder and Scully, their supervisor, and the homicide investigators they are assisting has been told is that the offender has been leaving brief notes. Written in an elaborate calligraphy, they cite the Bible or Bible-like phrases. At this site, under the woman's body, was a bloody piece of bond, torn roughly in half; on it had been written, "And God sent an angel unto Jerusalem to destroy it." Mulder recognized this fragment from the Old Testament, Chronicles 21:12. In context, God stopped the destruction before it was complete. Mulder wonders what that means.

He wonders if the murderer knows.

* * *

_ora pro nobis_

Again and again, Skinner draws the thin silver chain, so delicate it's almost a thread, through the fingers of his right hand. It's soft, silken. He stares at it intently as he rhythmically trails his fingers down its slender length. It makes a sweet muted chime as the links slide together. One end is looped around his left wrist. He doesn't know where the other end is -- it's hard for his eyes to follow the gracile fetter. Although he squints to see, somehow the silver slims into nothing, a sparkly blur. He knows his heart is at the other end. The chiming grows louder, becomes a buzz, becomes his alarm clock, and it's time to get up, get out of bed, get to work.

He rises from his bed of dreams with regret, longing for the reassuring presence of the delicate silver chain.

* * *

After six years together and working on more serial killer cases than Scully ever wanted to, she knows a great deal. Mulder is a good teacher, although he doesn't explain his behavior to himself as teaching. He respects Scully's intelligence and insight, needs to bounce his ideas off someone like her. That he's teaching her doesn't occur to him.

"On all these cases, Mulder," she's asking him now, staring at the piles of material they've put together, "I've never understood the *why* of it. Why do these things? Why strangers? I can almost understand a crime of passion . . . "

"Like when you get mad enough at me to kill me?"

She ignores him and continues, "But I don't understand the elaborate planning, the traveling, the seeking out of an ideal victim type."

Mulder nods. He isn't sure anyone can claim to understand the behavior she describes. But he explains, "Such killers are both born and created. They are usually abused as children, with hysterical, sexually seductive mothers. Our boy is organized; that is, he is sane enough to take great pains not to be caught. Yet these killers are psychopaths: they are emotionally detached from others. Their consciences are deformed or essentially absent.

"They seem driven to repeat their sadistic fantasies," Mulder continues. "Each murder becomes more involved and better rehearsed. It's as though one murder trains them for the next. They keep escalating until they are caught or are killed."

Scully nods absently. "I know that," she says softly, staring into space. Mulder studies her profile carefully, concerned about her. He sees her distress in the tension in her body, the lines on her pretty face. He doesn't want her hurt. She sighs heavily. "Mulder, you are so good at this; sometimes what you do seems like magic."

He smiles gratefully at his partner. "I'd rather be called a magician than 'spooky,'" he agrees. "But it's because serial killers have been studied that we know certain things about their behavior. For example, you already know that almost all serial killers are white males. We know that this type of serial killer is socially competent, often charming or even charismatic. We know that he will hold down a job, although it will be one below his abilities. He will own a nice car and will travel many miles seeking the right victim. And we know he will kill again."

Scully looks at the files on the long table, messy stacks, neatly squared stacks, stacks ready to tumble, and shakes her head. "It's one thing to read case files or to look at old photos. It is quite another to know that if one doesn't act *immediately*, another death will occur." She picks up a photo; it's one of the women who had been mutilated postmortem. They sit in silence, in respect for these women's horrific deaths. Mulder feels another pang of regret for Scully's loss of innocence; this isn't why she became a doctor, nor why she became a federal agent.

Just then she looks up at him and the tension falls away from her face as she smiles. He drops his eyes, afraid to reveal his gratitude for her presence in his life, then gathers his courage and raises them again. He smiles shyly back.

* * *

It's late. Scully doesn't bother to look at her watch anymore; what's the point? It's late and it'll just get later until it starts getting early again.

She and Mulder have been talking for hours, both taking notes on their laptops, calling up various data bases, searching for connections among the women. Mulder is refining the victim profile. Some of the similarities among the women are obvious; they were all white, all beautiful, all blonde, all blue eyed, all over five feet five inches in height, all between the ages of nineteen and thirty-five. Just as Ted Bundy had selected women who parted their dark hair down the middle, this UNSUB chooses tall blondes.

The less apparent similarities are starting to reveal themselves. All the women were heterosexual, either married or living with a man. All worked part-time. All had some college; three had bachelor degrees, one had a master's degree and one was working on a teaching credential. They all lived in diverse neighborhoods -- mixed racially and ethnically. Two had children. One had a gay brother, one a lesbian sister. The sisters had lived together, along with the victim's husband.

From these facts, Mulder is also able to start creating an offender profile. Because all the women were white, he is able to say that their murderer is also white; murder is almost invariably intraracial. He is confident that their physical appearance is what drew the UNSUB's attention to them. Serial sexual killers have vivid fantasies about what they do and why they do it; their murders are enactments of these fantasies.

Scully listens carefully as he explains how he draws these conclusions. Most are based on solid evidence from past cases; some are built on the evidence provided by the Indianapolis police; a few seem to Scully to be leaps of a kind of faith. Those conclusions almost frighten her. She is a scientist; she wants to understand each step, to develop reproducible theories. But she also appreciates Mulder's trust in her, to confess to these leaps of faith. She schools herself not to dismiss them, although she questions him closely.

* * *

_ora pro nobis_

She shivers in her shackles, arms outstretched on the bed, legs bent at the knees, feet pushed close to her hips and as far apart as they'll go. She is open and utterly vulnerable. She cannot see him, but she hears him, at the foot of the bed, humming, reciting under his breath. She jumps as she feels something touch her anus, and tries to twist away. But she is bound and cannot escape. Again and again, circling her perineum, stroking her anus, until finally, inevitably, she is broached, opened, widened. The stretching sensation grows as her sphincter is forcefully dilated more and more until perception moves into pain and greater pain and she's being torn open, something is being pushed into her, a birth in reverse; she twists and pulls and Skinner jerks awake to lukewarm coffee flooding his trousers and a tableful of suits observing him curiously as he wakes from a boring meeting.

"Jesus, Walt, are you okay?" someone asks him as he stands and shakes out his soaked trouser leg. Blushing, he shakes his head and excuses himself.

"Ah, fuck," he mutters, feeling clumsy. In the men's room, he hides in a stall, sitting on the toilet, and puts his head in his hands. Jesus. These nightmares have got to stop. He supposes that he should see someone, but he doesn't know whom. He certainly doesn't want to see a Bureau shrink.

For a moment, he misses Mulder, wishing he weren't on loan to Violent Crimes and stationed in Indianapolis. A beer with Mulder one evening, listening to him lecture Skinner on aliens, or government conspiracies, or things that go bump in the night -- that would help. But Mulder is far away and unlikely to return soon.

In the meantime, he needs to blot the coffee dry as best he can and get back to the meeting before they elect him chair of some bullshit subcommittee.

* * *

Scully has learned from Mulder that serial killers are fascinated by the police. Support for this assertion has arrived in the form of another note, handwritten in beautiful calligraphy, using real ink, on cheap white bond, folded into a cheap envelope All the DNA and fingerprints they could want, but there's no match in any of the data bases they've tried.

As a result, Mulder has decided to enlist the assistance of a psycholinguistic expert. He knows from his days with Patterson that Mark Muren at Indiana University does such work; since Bloomington is so close to Indianapolis, he calls him to ask for help. Mark remembers Mulder -- who wouldn't remember Mulder from his days with Patterson -- and agrees to review the evidence.

There is more than Scully had realized, once Mulder pulls it all together. Some are photocopies, the originals remaining in the hands of the homicide detectives in whose jurisdiction the crime occurred. But there are a half dozen originals Mark can review. Mulder stares at them as he waits for Mark.

All are either from the Bible or sound biblical in diction and tone. All are written in an elaborate calligraphy, using real ink, but on common bond paper. Some were mailed to the police and some were found at the dumping sites. Two were mailed to a local journalist who had enough integrity to be disgusted by the notion of facilitating a murderer and had turned the evidence over to the police.

Scully appears, bringing Mark Muren with her. Mulder jumps up, happy to see a familiar face, someone he whose abilities he trusts and respects. Mark says very little, just accepts the offer of coffee and begins sorting through the notes.

"Are these in chronological order?" Mulder nods. Mark begins to read, not taking notes initially. By the time he's finished his coffee, he has read them all several times. "I need photocopies of these, of course, so I can get them into the computer," but Mulder has anticipated his need and has a folder already prepared. "I'll do it right away, Fox. It'll take a few days, but I've pushed everything else back. I'll give this my highest priority.

"I will give you my preliminary findings, though, because I know you'll treat them as just that: preliminary. But I believe this man is beginning the escalation into true madness. He's begun using alcohol to combat his depression and isolation. Although he is usually socially competent, he's begun to withdraw. His violence will escalate; you'll begin to see more and more overkill and mutilation. More bizarre and baroque elements will be found. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he's begun to practice necrophilia.

"I'll do my best to get back to you in a day or so, Fox. Take care." He stands up, and Mulder and Scully follow suit. They shake, then Mark puts his hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Fox. I remember . . . " but he hesitates. Mulder's eyes drop for a moment, then he smiles at Mark.

"Yeah, but I have Scully now," he reassures him. Mark looks at Scully and smiles, his first heart-felt smile since he entered the room. He squeezes Mulder's shoulder, nods at Scully, and leaves.

After a few moments, Scully opens her mouth to speak. Mulder says, "Please don't ask, Scully." He looks at the floor, not meeting her eyes. She stares at him, curious, concerned, then sighs and nods her head. They turn back to the evidence. So much to do.

* * *

The next murder occurs before Mark Muren can get back to them. The offender has moved, from Indianapolis to DC. Mulder feels chilled; he knows that he brought the murderer to DC. His presence in Indianapolis has not gone unnoticed by the local press; his reputation precedes him. Now the murderer is calling him home by shitting in Mulder's backyard.

Mulder and Scully find it difficult to say goodbye to the homicide investigators they have been working with. The case is still unsolved. The families and friends of the victims are still without resolution. Without their loved ones. Without anything.

Their last night in Indiana, Scully prepares herself for bed knowing that she will not, cannot sleep. She fears the terrors that come when she closes her eyes: the immobility, the darkness, the utter silence of her dreams.

She stares at herself as she brushes her teeth; a pale young woman, somewhat foamy mouthed at the moment, her blue eyes glittering in the ugly fluorescent light bouncing off the stained white tile. She longs for the comfort of her own apartment, the safety of her own bed. She thinks again of Mulder next door and toys with the notion of spending the night in his room. He wouldn't mind; he'd probably enjoy the company. He has his own night terrors, she knows. But that would be using him, as a shield, as a guardian, and she refuses. She loves him too much.

* * *

His last night in Indiana, Mulder prepares himself for bed, knowing he will not, cannot sleep. He wears his responsibilities like heavy chains, like cumbersome weights. He has somehow been chosen to find these killers, to save these women, yet the burden is so onerous.

Furthermore, he is concerned, almost frightened, for Scully. Her eyes are sunken, surrounded by purplish circles of exhaustion. He doesn't believe she is sleeping. He stares at their connecting door, the air conditioning rattling in his ears, its cool damp air chilling his skin, and wonders whether he should disturb her. Maybe sleep on the floor of her room. He'd enjoy the company. They could talk about Moby Dick, or tell stories from happier days, or make silly guesses about how they'd spend their old age, a game they're fond of during long drives.

He stares at the door. He can't disturb her. He loves her too much, and he knows he'd be doing it more for his sake than for hers. He won't do that to her. He won't burden her. He turns and flops onto the lumpy mattress covered by a frayed brown cotton bedspread. He glimpses his id and badge open on the dresser; they make him think of his supervisor, AD Skinner. Whom he misses, Mulder admits to himself. With some embarrassment, he smiles and rolls onto his back. Jesus. When had their working relationship come to mean so much? It's absurd. He isn't sure he can trust Skinner, yet he longs to. He longs to believe.

Mulder shuts his eyes and sighs heavily. Maybe there's something on tv.

* * *

The next afternoon, back in his office in DC, Mulder studies the reports of the latest homicide. He is distressed by the subtle differences between it and the ones in Indianapolis. The similarities are enough that he feels confident the same offender is at work, but Mark Muren's predictions seem to be accurate. The guy is escalating. A descent into madness, Mark had called it. Significant overkill. Bite marks. Latent fingerprints under the arms. Saliva and semen found on the body. Once they catch the murderer, forensics will easily tie him to the victims; he has left plenty of trace evidence.

Mulder is uncomfortable with these subtle changes. He believes that his participation has in some ways triggered them. He knows from experience that organized serial murderers closely follow media coverage of them. The offender will know who Mulder is, who Scully and Skinner are, what they're doing, why, and when they're doing it. Mulder feels as though he is participating in these evil acts, that he shares responsibility for them with the murderer. That he is evoking new and more depraved behavior.

He doesn't tell Scully this, of course. He sees how closely she watches him. She hovers at his back, brings him orange juice and sweet rolls and apples, urges him to take breaks and go for short walks. He finds her concern both touching and annoying. He tries to obey her, since he considers her his doctor, and since he has no doubt she would go to Skinner if his behavior were to frighten her in any way. But it's hard. He desires punishment for -- he isn't sure for what. He's reminded of his adolescence when, simply to get his father's attention, he would act out and suffer the resultant beating in silent satisfaction. He tries hard not to regress to that behavior.

But a part of him wants the attention. He wants Scully focused on him, he wants Skinner to notice him. He drinks the orange juice, eats the apples, goes for short walks with her, and suffers her observation of him. This will be his punishment, he decides, to suffer Scully's exasperated, affectionate concern. She would be *so* annoyed if she knew this; somehow, that knowledge brings him a modicum of pleasure, and at times he is tempted to tell her. But that would be unkind, and he will not be unkind to Scully. His guardian angel.

* * *

Scully and Mulder sit in Skinner's office, late in the day they return to work from Indiana, discussing the case. It's after five; Kim is gone, almost everyone is gone. They sit in the largely empty Hoover, surrounded by its heavy silence. As Mulder fills in the details, the observations and speculations omitted from their official report, Scully studies his behavior. He exhibits little deferment, but there's a gentle respect, a kindliness, even affection in his soft tenor as he addresses their supervisor. His lovely mobile mouth pulls into a moue of distaste when he describes the Bible and biblical-like verses found with the bodies.

Scully tunes out his words and begins to study Skinner. A tall handsome man well into his middle years, his office, his bearing, his dress, and his position all demand respect. Yet his face is as gentle as Mulder's as he listens attentively. His eyes are difficult to see behind his glasses, but Scully thinks he's watching Mulder very closely.

Not paying attention to Mulder's words, Scully is surprised when both men laugh softly. She glances at Mulder to discover that he's staring at Skinner with the same intensity with which Skinner stares at him.

Scully's ears fill with a peculiar buzzing and her head feels light, as she studies the gentle, matching smiles on the two men's lips. They are beautiful, she thinks, and realizes that their beauty transcends their physical presence. Mulder and Skinner.

She settles back in her chair, quiet and observant. Secure in her new-found knowledge.

* * *

_ora pro nobis_

Skinner lies in a strange bed; something crinkles beneath him when he moves, as if the mattress were encased in plastic. He turns his head, but can see nothing of the room. A silver chain looped around his left wrist catches his eye. He feels his heart rate slow, his breathing calm, as he focuses on its glittering length. He tries to track the chain, but its end disappears into a silvery glimmer. He rolls onto his left side and brings his right hand across his body so he can finger the chain. The links are as fine and as soft as silk. He feels a quiet comfort at the chain's presence. It ties him to something, to someone. Mulder, he thinks; he's tied to Mulder. He feels simultaneously embarrassed and comforted by this knowledge. Grace, he thinks; I am graced. He wakes to a sense of contentment and gratitude, securely tied by the delicate fetters of love.

I'll invite Mulder out for a beer, now that he's returned to DC, he promises himself, stretching into wakefulness. Maybe mention those horrible dreams to him. Of all the people in the world, he would understand nightmares. Then Skinner thinks of the significance of the silver chain he'd also been dreaming of. In those dreams, he'd somehow belonged to Mulder. He blushes slightly, alone in his bed, and decides not to mention his silver-chain dreams.

* * *

Scully worries about Mulder. She is watching him as he re-reads, for heaven knows how many times, the crime scene reports of the murderer they are tracking. Actually, they are reports of the secondary crime scene, the dumping scene. The primary crime scene has not been discovered.

It is significant, she knows, that the killer has moved to DC. Such killers tend to have a comfort zone in which they do the actual murder, and in this case, premortem torture. He must know both the Indianapolis and DC area. That may help Mulder narrow down the population of suspects.

She has read his most recent profile, and was extremely impressed by it. In some ways, Mulder is a genius, and she admires and respects his intellect and abilities. She doesn't envy those abilities, however; on the contrary, at times she pities him for possessing them. They take so much out of him.

It's late, again; it's always late on this case. Morning will never come, she thinks, and then has to laugh at herself. They both had arrived in Mulder's basement office around six-thirty that morning, their second day in DC, anxious to find the killer, solve the case, return to their beloved x-files. Mulder glances up at her, light reflecting off his glasses, and she smiles at him. He looks piteously at his empty coffee mug; she rolls her eyes and gets up to fetch them both more of their current drug of choice. At that moment the door opens and Skinner enters.

Mulder stands as well, in surprise and, perhaps, in respect. Or so Scully thinks. She knows that he has trusted their boss longer than she has; only time will tell whether his trust is misplaced. But for now, she is willing to follow Mulder's lead. And after those months working under AD Kersh, she is better able to appreciate Skinner's qualities.

The fact that he is here, in their office, at this absurd time of night, or rather morning, is one of those qualities. "Agents," he greets them both, but Scully observes that his eyes go straight to Mulder. "You're here late."

"So are you," Mulder counters dryly. Skinner nods. "We're going over the facts, looking to refine the profile."

"It's an excellent profile, Mulder; the best I've ever read. You need sleep -- and food." Scully feels herself blush; she hears a rebuke toward her in the comment. And rightfully so, she thinks. She is Mulder's partner; it's her job to take care of him, as he takes care of her. But Skinner never glances at her.

"Go home, agents. That's an order. I'll see you to your cars." For a moment, the three stand motionless. Scully can see Mulder wants to object. Then a yawn splits his face, and the tension eases. He throws down his notes, and she precedes the two men to the elevator.

Oddly, once in the elevator, Skinner asks them if they want to stop for a beer before going home. "There's time before the bars close," he says awkwardly, "and there's no need for either of you to come in early tomorrow." Scully declines, but she can see that Mulder's tempted.

"Go on," she urges him. "You need to unwind a little. Talk some sports, look at pretty girls." Skinner looks appalled but says nothing; Mulder grins at them both. They walk her to her car; her last view of them is through her rear view mirror; she thinks they're arguing about where to go.

* * *

"Bud Lite?" Skinner asks incredulously. He's drinking some microbrewed ale that's thick enough to eat with a fork. "Jesus, Mulder; be a man."

But Mulder can't be goaded; smiling, he lifts his bottle and toasts Skinner. "Fuck you, sir," which cracks up Skinner. He has to hastily set down his mug so as not to spill its dark foamy head while he laughs.

The bar is almost empty. It's a big dim place near the Hoover that Mulder recommended; he's known here, but left alone. The pretty blonde bartender calls him "Spooky," which surprises Skinner. He hasn't heard that nickname in a long time. Years. And Mulder seems much less spooky to him these days. Working with him, getting to know him, has erased the reputation that preceded the experience.

The conversation moves easily, but sporadically. Both men feel comfortable just to sit, sip, and sigh. Skinner surreptitiously studies his subordinate. He's grown thin during his time in Indiana; the collar of his shirt seems too large. He feels a pang of guilt for agreeing to release Mulder's services for this case; it isn't fair to him. But what can Skinner do? Mulder's the best.

Finally, Skinner decides to steer the conversation towards the dreams. He's trying to create some logical opening, when Mulder surprises him by saying, "Have you been sleeping well?"

Skinner is nonplused by the question. He doesn't think Mulder's ever asked him anything so personal. Before he can frame an answer, Mulder ducks his head and begins to apologize. "It's none of my business, I know. It's just . . . " his voice trails off. He takes another sip of his Bud. "It's just that you look tired. Exhausted, really." The expression on his face leads Skinner to believe that he expects to be slapped down for his concern.

Skinner thinks he could say the same about Mulder, but he doesn't consider refusing the opening, recognizing a gift from god when it arrives. "I haven't been," he says firmly, feeling his face heat from a slightly blush. "Do you know much about dreams? Do they really have any meaning?"

Mulder is off; this is exactly the type of question he loves. Skinner watches with pleasure and some bemusement as Mulder starts with Freud's _The Interpretation of Dreams_, moves to Native American dreamcatchers, then to Australian aborigine's dreamtime, then to a Stanford University professor's work on sleep disorders, before winding down. "Why," he finally asks; "Are your dreams disrupting your sleep?"

Skinner almost laughs, almost denies it, but he takes a deep breath and describes his nightmares to Mulder. He speaks softly, afraid the few other bar patrons will hear him; Mulder has to lean across the table to hear him. He stares into Mulder's hazel eyes, half-hypnotized by their gentle concern. "They're just so -- vivid," he finishes. "And so, so upsetting."

Mulder nods, but doesn't speak for a while. He moves his empty beer bottle around, smudging the dirty table's surface with damp rings of condensation. Finally, he says, "What you've described very closely parallels what we've found has been done to the victims of the serial sexual murderer who moved here from Indianapolis. Very closely. When did you read the first reports on this case?"

Skinner's shaking his head before Mulder can finish speaking. "No, it isn't that. I'm sure of it. I've had dreams, nightmares, from my work before. Usually about appearing before the Director without being prepared. Or without clothes." He and Mulder grin at this. "But these dreams are *different*. More -- disturbing. And, as I said, more vivid. They aren't like dreams, Mulder."

Again, Mulder nods but doesn't speak. For several, long minutes the two men sit quietly. It's late. Both are tired. Both are stressed and anxious over their work. Both feel a friendly confidence in the other. Mulder's eyes flick up to Skinner's face; Skinner feels read, somehow; known. Understood and accepted. Skinner becomes aware of a desire to touch Mulder, to hold his hand. He sighs gustily. Finally, Mulder says, "I think these may be precognitive. I want you to see a hypnotherapist."

"No."

"No one from the Bureau. A friend of mine."

"Not that Verber."

"That's the guy. Hey, he's good. Ask Scully." Skinner thinks he would sooner die than ask Scully

"It's just," he finally says, almost shy in his desire not to hurt Mulder's feelings, "I, I don't think I believe in precognition. In dreams."

Mulder nods ruefully. "I know. Neither does Scully. But, if I may be frank," and he looks closely at Skinner, obviously seeking permission. Skinner nods, and Mulder continues, "it doesn't matter whether or not you believe. What matters is the dreams themselves. They're disrupting your sleep, making you uncomfortable. Maybe it's because I'm a psychologist, but I think you need to talk to somebody about them."

"I'll talk to you," Skinner blurts out, then feels his face heat.

Mulder smiles, and Skinner thinks he looks grateful. "Okay. Okay. Um, we can meet and talk. But not over a beer."

"Why not? I'm more comfortable talking about such things over a beer, Mulder."

Mulder just looks at him, and Skinner can feel his blush return. He looks away, takes a good swallow of his ale, then wipes the foam from his lips. "All right, all right. Later, though. When this is over."

Mulder doesn't need to ask what "this" is, Skinner can tell. He nods once more, sipping his own beer. The two men sit a few minutes longer, taking comfort in each other's presence. Then, by unspoken agreement, they stand and leave.

* * *

Mulder has been ruminating on Skinner's confession about his dreams for several days now. He finds the dreams meaningful, and Skinner's openness about them even more meaningful. He considers the dreams' contents information, and slightly revises his profile based on them.

He enjoyed the beer with Skinner, more than he'd anticipated. A lot more. Skinner seems solid to Mulder. Real. More real than most people. Mulder slowly realizes how much he values Skinner's presence in his life. Much as Scully, he thinks, Skinner helps keep me grounded. Life in the Bureau has been difficult for Mulder; this is a source of some embarrassment for him. He was the golden boy, the blue flamer; now he works in the basement in what used to be the copy room. But how much better this is, he thinks, than in the bullpen working for Kersh. Skinner is more than a trusted supervisor, more than a valued ally. But what is he?

Mulder stretches in his uncomfortable office chair, and, leaning back, looks at the collection of pencils in the ceiling. Scully hates that, but Skinner's never commented on his habit. He must have noticed.

Mulder's vertebrae pop loudly and he sits up straight. It's been weeks since he's taken time to go running or visit the gym; he really needs to get out. But the case presses on him, as heavily as the weights Skinner uses to keep in shape. Sometimes Mulder has trouble breathing, as if a weight were in fact resting heavily on his chest. Sometimes his heart feels as though it were racing. He knows Scully would be worried, so he doesn't mention this. Some somatic symptomatology; nothing she needs to know.

He reviews his profile, for perhaps the hundredth time. There must be some way to narrow the population of suspects down enough for a reasonable search. As it stands, the profile offers no clue to locate the offender, or at least, none that he can see.

* * *

Scully, too, is reviewing the profile. She skims through it: "The suspect is between the ages of twenty-five to twenty-eight. He expends a great deal of energy in the murders, which is more typical for youthful perpetrators. . . . The perpetrator is male, as evidenced by the semen left on the victims' bodies and in their wounds. . . . The race is white.

"The perpetrator is above average in intelligence. This can be determined by the amount of planning in each murders. The killer abducts his victims in broad daylight, so he must have developed plans and fall- backs. He must not appear threatening to his victims, probably is quite charming, even charismatic.

"The killer is well-educated, possibly in a private Christian school. He was probably an honors student, but unnoticed by most of his classmates. Not until he began to kill would he be confident enough to speak to others easily.

"The killer is single, and has never been married. He probably does not like women, although they initially find him attractive. He may have homosexual tendencies but finds them repellent and denies them. He is probably the oldest child, and much was expected of him. He has siblings, probably only younger brothers. His mother is still living and he has a troubled relationship with her. She is perhaps a member of a charismatic or evangelical sect that values emotion over intellect. He is simultaneously embarrassed by and attracted to her.

"His home is neat and clean. His clothes will be well-kept, tidy, pressed. His shoes will be polished and neatly placed side by side. He will keep no souvenirs or trophies from his victims, for two reasons. First, he is intelligent enough to know that would be dangerous. But he also has no interest in trophies, or indeed, the victims after they're dead. The premortem rituals he engages in are designed to take his victims into a spiritual realm of release from evil sublunar influences. Once they're dead, they are no longer of interest; they are no longer human.

"In fact, I would speculate that none of the offender's victims appears as human to him at any time. Prior to death, he sees them as embodying some spiritual quality that begs to be released from its profane physical housing. After death, that quality or essence resides no longer in the body; the victim is now trash to be disposed of."

The profile continues, assessing the perpetrator's vehicle, employment, psychosexual history, and suggesting an interrogation strategy to be used upon capture. But something in the paragraph about how the offender views his victims disturbs Scully. Mulder has slightly altered it from her last reading. She wonders why. The notes that have been recovered from the dump sites may have influenced him; they sound as if they'd been taken from some version of the Bible.

But there's more. Scully feels as though Mulder is telling her something, something perhaps even he doesn't yet consciously know. She removes her reading glasses and rubs her eyes and forehead vigorously. How many more will die before this monster is caught? How many more bodies will she autopsy before it's simply too much?

* * *

Skinner's writing down his most recent nightmare, as Mulder had suggested. He feels foolish, yet distressed. His PowerBook isn't used to such phrases as, "I felt and heard plastic under the sheets, perhaps to protect the mattress," or "I felt an object inserted into my rectum." He pauses, hands hovering over the keyboard, but continues. He'll get it all down, all out of his head, and give it to Mulder. He feels what he knows is a misplaced confidence in Mulder's ability to assist him. But he refuses to go to a hypnotherapist.

The dream had been similar to the others: preternaturally vivid. This time, he'd been in the body of an older man, a priest, he thinks. Although the man had been nude, the white collar had been on the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. The room had been different; either the furniture changed or a different room; Skinner doesn't know, although he feels certain it matters. The man had his jaw broken, his nipples sliced off, and had been sodomized with some object, a bottle perhaps. When the knife appeared in Skinner's vision, he had flung himself almost bodily out of the dream, waking up half out of his bed, panting and sweating. He'd taken a quick shower and poured himself a glass of bourbon before he'd felt able to document the dream

He doesn't document what he's come to call the silver-chain dreams, although he's had another, the third. The magic number. This time he'd fallen asleep in front of the television, watching a documentary of Roswell, and dreamt that he'd received in the mail a package from New Mexico. Inside was a delicate silver chain, as fine as a baby's hair, as soft as a baby's skin. He remembers it glistening in the palm of his hand as he'd slowly shifted it. He knew if he put it on, he would be making a commitment, would be letting the universe know his answer was yes, yes, and always yes. He'd woken up with the television on, his neck torqued back and to the right, and his left hand in his lap, palm up, as if gently cradling something delicate.

That dream, however, he does not confess. He types on, the keyboard clicking in the depth of night as his monitor reflects the terrible death of yet another frightened soul.

When he finishes the report, Skinner moves restlessly through his apartment. He's almost afraid to return to bed, to his bed of dreams. How many times can I be killed in my sleep, he wonders, only half facetiously. He had wine with dinner, a glass of brandy afterwards. Now, after waking from the nightmare, he's watched some tv, listened to music, read the paper twice, taken a shower instead of waiting till morning as he usually does, and is sipping a good inch of bourbon. He saves the document and closes his laptop.

Impulsively, he picks up the phone and listens to the dial tone. His hand rests lightly on the keypad. He wants to call Mulder, but is afraid he's asleep. Except Mulder never sleeps. He hangs up the phone.

Standing completely still, he feels as though he were spinning in place. Not dizzy, but a frantic dislocation. He stares at the ceiling, and then picks up the phone for a second time and calls a cab. He's had too much to drink tonight to drive himself. He'll head over to Mulder's, see if the light's on.

The cabbie pulls up outside Mulder's apartment and leans back for his money. Skinner cranes his head around so he can see the window; a jumpy blue light illuminates it. He pays the cabbie and stands hesitantly on the sidewalk.

It's very quiet. No cars drive by, just a light breeze rustling the leaves. No stars; it's too bright here, and there's a thick cloud layer reflecting back the city's glare. Supposed to start raining in a few hours. It's muggy; Skinner feels sweat form under his arms and on his forehead. He's tempted just to start walking and see where he ends up. He continues to stand on the sidewalk in front of Mulder's apartment, watching the window.

Skinner had recently read a Stephen King novel in which King had suggested that "fear" stood for "Fuck Everything And Run." Standing below Mulder's window, Skinner thinks King is a fucking genius. Fuck everything and run, Walt, he tells himself, and starts to back away; just goddammit run away. Just then a light goes on in Mulder's apartment, and Mulder appears at his window.

He opens the window and takes a deep breath, oblivious to his supervisor watching him from below. He isn't wearing a shirt, and Skinner can see the white of his boxers as he leans out the window. He wears a look of great exhaustion and ineffable sadness as he stares outward. The thousand yard stare.

The two men stand there for some time. Finally, Mulder takes an enormous breath, his chest rising in the street light, rolls his head back, and twists as if to stretch his back muscles. Then he steps away from the window.

As if released from a trance, Skinner stumbles backwards, almost falling when he steps off the sidewalk into the street. He swallows and, gathering his courage, climbs the stairs to Mulder's. For reasons he is unwilling to admit, he needs to see him. He wants to talk. He hopes to be comforted.

* * *

Mulder is shocked by Skinner's appearance at his door. The two men stare at each other in the dim light; then simultaneously Skinner begins to apologize and back away and Mulder begins to apologize and invite him in. Mulder has to grab Skinner by his upper arm to stop him from leaving. Skinner looks exhausted, and terribly sad, standing motionless in the hallway. Mulder can feel a pulse in his hand where he grasps Skinner's arm. Gently, he coaxes Skinner into his apartment, offering him beer, coffee, water, juice.

Inside, Skinner seems to come to himself. He studies Mulder closely, almost severely; Mulder wonders if he's here to scold him for some violation of protocol. Then he strides to the window and leans out it, looking down at the sidewalk four floors below. After a moment he turns to look again at Mulder, resting his hip against the window ledge.

Mulder studies his supervisor, trying to understand his behavior. He feels -- dark. Dangerous. Mulder feels his heart speed slightly as the silence grows. To his embarrassment, he feels his dick harden under Skinner's gaze. Since Mulder is wearing only cotton boxers, his erection is immediately apparent to Skinner, and Mulder watches Skinner's eyes drop, his eyebrows lift, and then his eyes move back to Mulder's. Mulder feels himself blushing but doesn't move. He's a psychologist; he knows that engorgement of the penis can occur for many reasons other than sexual excitement. Any strong emotion can, under certain conditions, cause an erection. He isn't sure why this particular physiological state has occurred at this moment; he isn't sure he wants to know.

Mulder's dick gets harder. He feels as though all the blood from his brain is pooling in his penis. Even his vision is affected. Still, Skinner remains quiet, leaning against the window, studying Mulder. Finally, Mulder turns to go into his bedroom and find some clothes. Skinner stops him with a word: "Fox."

Skinner has called Mulder by his first name only once or twice in all the years they've worked together. That he should choose to do so at this awkward moment seems freighted with meaning to Mulder. He obeys Skinner and remains in the living room, half turned away from the window, staring at the floor. He has a strong desire to begin masturbating and is simultaneously shamed and aroused by the thought. He feels his right hand twitch, and sighs deeply.

Skinner pushes away from the ledge against which he's been leaning and slowly walks to Mulder. He's fully clothed, in weathered jeans and a short-sleeved blue cotton oxford shirt. As he nears Mulder he puts his hands up and out, pulling Mulder into an embrace. It feels like a homecoming to Mulder, to relax against the strong bulk of Skinner's muscles. Mulder can smell the fabric softener in the shirt, Skinner's deodorant and aftershave, and his sweat. He puts his hands on Skinner's hips and then slides them around his waist. His erection pushes into Skinner's hip, and both men tilt their pelvises to increase the pressure.

Skinner gently rubs his face against Mulder's cheek; Mulder can feel his breath against his ear and jaw. He slowly pulls back his head, eyes half closed, and inhales Skinner's scent and breath. Skinner's mouth covers his and he instantly opens his lips. For a few moments more they stand crushed together, kissing deeply; then Skinner slips his hand under Mulder's boxers and down the curve of his ass. Mulder pushes back, into his hand, and Skinner seizes him fiercely, surely leaving his handprint, shudders terrifically, then gasps into Mulder's mouth. Mulder realizes that Skinner has come in his pants.

"Jesus, Mulder," he says, and steps briskly away. He suddenly transmutes into the assistant director again. "This isn't why I came."

"I know why you came," Mulder says slyly, but Skinner silences him with a glance.

"I apologize. This was wrong. I was wrong. I cannot apologize enough for my behavior."

"Premature ejaculation is not uncommon -- "

Skinner cuts him off with a look. They stare at each other. Mulder feels his penis begin to soften in his annoyance with Skinner's behavior. "Why did you come to my apartment, at this time of night?"

Skinner blushes. In the dim light of the apartment, Mulder can see how furiously his supervisor blushes; even the top of his head and his ears turn red. "I can't sleep."

"So you thought I could help?"

"Yes, Mulder, I did. I'm having -- I'm still having bad dreams." He tugs at the crotch of his jeans. "Jesus," he repeats. "I really did *not* come here to hit on you. I can't believe this," he says more softly, shaking his head, "I haven't come in my pants in thirty years. And I certainly didn't intend to tonight," he adds more firmly.

"It's okay --"

"It is *not* okay, okay? I don't *do* this. You just -- I just . . . Shit. Shit." He rubs his head.

"You could blow me," Mulder offers, and to his surprise Skinner laughs.

"Yeah, I suppose," he says, but makes no move to do so. Instead he tugs again at his damp jeans, and sits on the couch. "Put some clothes on, Mulder. You have no idea what you look like. Then talk to me." Mulder stares at his supervisor. "I'm serious, Mulder. Put some clothes on and come sit down." Mulder is tempted to disobey him, just to see what would happen. He takes a step nearer, then another. With each step Skinner's face slackens, in apprehension. Perhaps in lust.

"I'm serious, too," Mulder murmurs as he steps even closer. He hooks his thumbs into his boxers and drags them down, beneath his balls. His erection is returning. He takes one more step until his penis is immediately before Skinner's face. Skinner looks up at him, studying him. Then he opens his mouth and sucks Mulder's dick in deeply. Mulder gasps in delighted shock and shoves himself into Skinner, who grabs Mulder's hips in self defense. More bruises, Mulder thinks, but then gives himself up to the pleasures of the moment.

Skinner proves very talented with his lips and tongue and hands. Mulder's knees tremble and he wants to lie down, but he's afraid to break contact with Skinner, afraid that the moment will dissipate and he'll be punished instead of blown. Then Skinner slides one hand around his ass, pressing into him, and Mulder knows if he touches his asshole, he'll come. Skinner touches his anus, and Mulder shouts, bending over the top of Skinner's head. "Fuck," he gasps, "oh, dear, oh fuck."

Skinner leans back against the couch and pulls Mulder down into his lap, kissing him so he can taste his own semen on Skinner's lips. Finally, Mulder says, "Now, you," but Skinner shakes his head.

"Never again, Fox. This was a mistake. I'm sorry." He kisses Mulder again, sucking his tongue and lower lip. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and slides Mulder off his lap and onto the coffee table. He stands. "I'll probably sleep now, I suppose." He sounds sad, bereft. "I'm sorry," he whispers again, and then leaves abruptly.

Mulder sits, his bare ass on the cool surface of the coffee table, boxers around his knees, head in his hands, and wonders what the hell just happened. If he should hope it will happen again.

* * *

The next afternoon, Skinner is working in his office, sipping bottled water and revising a memo to his department heads, when his phone rings.

"Why did you stop by?" a soft voice asks.

It's Mulder. Skinner remains silent for several seconds, then tells him firmly, "You shouldn't call on this line."

"Just answer the question."

More silence while Skinner decides whether he should simply hang up or respond. Finally, he says, "I told you. To discuss my dreams, I mean my nightmares."

"Your dreams or your nightmares?"

Skinner closes his eyes in frustration. Mulder can be *such* a pain in the ass. He decides he'll get off the phone quicker if he just answers. "My nightmares. And not *now*, Mulder. We both have work to do."

"Then tonight. I'll buy you a beer."

For long moments, Skinner remains silent, balancing the many possible answers to this invitation. His response should be "no," and for excellent reasons. Against his will, against his better judgment, against all common sense, a smile curls his mouth. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he tells Mulder, "As long as it isn't a Bud Lite, you're on. At seven?" He's still laughing as he hangs up. He is unreasonably looking forward to seeing Mulder again, to telling him his nightmares, and maybe his dreams. Tethered to Mulder. He snorts, and returns to the memo.

****

Mulder is excited at the prospect of seeing Skinner again. Being sucked off by his supervisor had proven to be surprisingly exciting. Hell, being sucked off by anybody is a marked improvement in his social life. He is also concerned about Skinner's nightmares. The reports Skinner has dutifully typed up for him were disturbing in several senses. Most seriously, he was worried about his friend, worried that his sleeping disorder was returning. But the nightmares were frightening in other ways as well. According to Skinner, they had begun while Mulder was in Indiana, before he had sent any detailed reports to his supervisor. Yet the nightmares paralleled very exactly what was done to the victims of the killer they were seeking. Even details not released to the public, so it wasn't that Skinner had read about them in the paper or seen them on the news. They were, in Mulder's opinion, genuine precognitive dreams.

And that fact worried him as well. Ever since Skinner had confessed to him what had happened to him on the battlefield in Viet Nam, Mulder has harbored suspicions that Skinner was at least mildly psychic. Not that he'd ever tell Skinner or Scully that. But Mulder believes.

As Mulder walks to the back of the bar, to a table in a quiet, dark corner, he passes a man literally weeping into his beer. The man suddenly looks up at him, eyes red and swollen, nose shiny with snot, and says, "You didn't catch him."

Mulder stops. "I beg your pardon?" But even as the words leave his lips, he recognizes this defeated man as the husband of the most recently murdered woman, whom he'd met at the DC police station.

"She's dead!" he bellows. The few patrons turn to stare; the bartender stops mopping the counter to watch more closely. "You'll never catch that fucker; why do you pretend? You're alive. I saw that pretty partner of yours; she's alive. You fucking her? I'll never --" but his throat seizes and he can only stare accusingly at Mulder, tears seeping from his eyes.

Mulder feels someone come up behind him. "Can I help you?" Skinner asks.

"Who the fuck are you?" The still-weeping man has partially regained his composure. "Another dick-head FBI agent? Fucking Bureau of Incompetence?" He suddenly lurches to his feet and bellows at them, spittle flying. "Why aren't you out looking for him? What the fuck is the matter with you? Get out of here!" This last sentence is screamed.

"Everything all right, Spooky?" the bartender asks, moving up the bar to be nearer.

"Yes," Skinner answers shortly, still watching the belligerent widower.

"They call you 'Spooky'?" he asks derisively.

"Yes, they do," Skinner responds, and steps closer. The two men stare at each other, tension building in their bodies. Mulder looks at the bartender.

"Is there an office we could use for a few minutes?" She gestures to her left; Mulder sees a dark wooden door, the sign "Authorized Personnel Only" on it. "Please, sir, we can talk in there."

"I don't *want* to talk, you asshole, I *want* my *wife*." He's sobbing, shaking, hands on the table, head thrust up staring at Mulder and Skinner. He's trembling so hard that his longish light red hair moves; Mulder can see the grey threading it. His eyes are pale watery blue surrounded by red. He hasn't shaved in a day or two; Mulder can tell his beard would be red and grey.

The three men stand for a moment more, then the widower drops his head and seats himself heavily. "Fuck you," he whispers, and begins to cry, awkwardly, painfully. "I miss her so much, so much." Tears fill Mulder's own eyes, his nose begins to prickle in sympathy. He feels Skinner put his large hand on his shoulder and gently push him.

"We're sorry, sir," Skinner says softly, and then leads Mulder to a table at the rear of the bar. He leaves his hand on Mulder's shoulder while they walk, dropping it only when they sit.

Mulder hastily wipes his eyes as he sits, not wanting Skinner to see how the outburst had affected him. But when he looks at Skinner he sees that he, too, has been moved. "We have to find that guy," he mutters; Skinner nods.

"We will, Fox. You will. You always do."

But that's the wrong thing to say, Mulder thinks, shrinking back. He can't --

Skinner sees his mistake immediately; he grasps Mulder's hand. "I'm sorry."

Mulder shakes his head. "No, it's okay. We will. I will."

Skinner stares at him intently. "*We* will," he finally says, and to Mulder's amazement, Skinner lift's Mulder's hand to his mouth and kisses it. He smiles at Mulder's surprise. "So much for never again, eh, Fox?"

Mulder feels his mouth drop open in surprise; he laughs, and then looks guiltily toward the widower. He's gone. Only a half-empty mug of beer and a couple dollar bills on the table where he'd sat. Mulder looks back at Skinner. "When this case is over, we need to talk."

Skinner nods. "When this is over." He squeezes Mulder's hand, then releases it to wave the waitress over.

* * *

Scully sits in the basement office, puzzling over a map of DC. It's late; Mulder's gone. She thinks he has a date, but he's being mysterious. More mysterious than usual about his recreational activities.

Scully returns her attention to the colored paper, smoothing its crinkles. She sits *here*, and she touches the map with a finger, in the Hoover. The body was dumped *here*, and she moves her finger to the right, in the yards between Union Station and the Greyhound bus terminal on L and First. The family lived *here*, and now her finger moves to the left, almost to Georgetown. Not far, actually, from where Scully herself lives. She traces the distance between Georgetown and where the body was found. Right by the Hoover. Depending on what route the offender took, maybe right past them. Maybe just for the hell of it, he'd waved as he's driven by. Hi! Can't catch me!

Scully can barely breathe, she is so angry and so offended. How dare he come to her territory; how dare he flip her off with such appalling behavior. She stares at the map, utterly convinced it can tell her something. You are here, she thinks. If Mulder were to walk in right now, she wants to be able to say, "Here, Mulder. Let's go get him." She wants this as badly as she's ever wanted anything in her life. Here, Mulder. Let's go.

She stares at the map. He's here, he lives here, he has to. Everything she knows about these killers, and she knows quite a lot after working with Mulder for six years, tells her that he lives here. He has a home or apartment in which he feels safe enough to work his evil magic. He has a nice car. He has a job that moves him between DC and Indianapolis. He has an interfering, seductive mother. He's Christian, some evangelical sect. He is a sick fuck who hurts people because he believes he is releasing their souls from their fouled bodies. He is separating the sacred from the profane. And he is fucking *here*.

Scully stares at the map. She won't go home; she can't go home. Her apartment holds no comfort, her bed offers no safety during these empty nights of waiting, waiting for another death. Another loss.

She stares at the map.

* * *

The next morning, as early as Mulder arrives, Scully is there before him. In fact, he realizes that she never left. She's still wearing the same black pants and jacket she did yesterday. No makeup, no earrings, and sleep in her eyes. She looks up at him as he stands, surprised, in the open door.

"He's a student at the Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis. He's from DC. He's left school and is back here. Maybe taken the semester off."

Mulder is struck speechless, both by what Scully says and the intensity with which she says it. After several seconds, he closes the door behind him, walks to his desk, and sits down. "How do you know?" he finally asks.

Scully drops her eyes and doesn't respond. Mulder straightens. "How do you know, Scully?"

She raises her eyes. "I'm right, aren't I." Not a question. And yes, she is right. He knows it. He can feel it. Hell, he can taste it.

"We've got him," he whispers.

She nods, and a smile of enormous triumph splits her face. Mulder begins laughing. "We've fucking *got* him!" he shouts, and she laughs, too.

"Call Skinner -- get a court order for the names of their students who live in DC," she chokes out, still laughing, but crying, too, crying for all the dead, the pain, the suffering, for Mulder, who's lost weight and confidence on this job, for herself. She puts her head in her hands and cries. She hears the squeak of Mulder's chair as he jumps up, feels him wrap his arms around her, and leans into his comforting presence. "We got him," she whispers again, and kisses his shoulder, then snuggles her head under his chin. He strokes her hair, and kisses the top of her head.

"Yeah, Dana. We got him."

* * *

"Another one." It isn't a question, so Mulder doesn't respond, just looks at Skinner. Skinner stands next to his car, hands in his trousers pockets, tan raincoat flowing behind him. He is worried about Mulder. He looks both younger and older than when he last saw him. Younger in his confusion and distress at the horrible death he has just viewed; older in his exhaustion and disappointment. Skinner is tempted to touch him, rest a hand on his shoulder, stroke his face, but prudence dictates otherwise.

"How long since you've slept?"

Mulder continues to look at him, closes his eyes for a few seconds, then looks away. He sighs. "I'd better get back to Scully." Skinner nods and watches him return to the crime scene, stepping over a chain looped between low posts surrounding the vacant lot in a run-down neighborhood.. He should go, too, he supposes, but doesn't move. He already knows what he'll find: a beautiful blonde woman bludgeoned to death, sexually assaulted, probably mutilated. No sane man rushes to witness such deaths.

As he watches Mulder talk to the investigating police, Skinner fiddles with something bound around his wrist. He glances down; it's a loose thread from his shirt cuff. He slides his index finger under the loop and gently tugs. It breaks.

Skinner sees chains everywhere these days. He is obsessed with chains. His silver-chain dreams haunt him, filling his nights and his days. The chains around the vacant lot; the loop of thread around his wrist; the line between the handset and his office phone curling around his forearm when he answers it; the chain and cross Scully wears around her throat -- all these seem significant, meaningful. As if they were pages in a book in a language he doesn't quite remember.

He watches Mulder slip away from the police and back toward the medical examiner and Scully, standing over the poor mutilated body. Mulder stands, half bent over, hands on knees; Skinner wonders if he's light-headed or just wants to see better. Mulder looks tired, almost frail; the exhaustion and tension of the last weeks are proving too much. Once again, Skinner vows not to loan his best, his dearest agent to VCU again. As a supervisor, it is his responsibility to keep his agents safe. As a friend, and he so longs to be Mulder's friend, it is his responsibility to keep Mulder healthy. He sighs, and turns to go to his car, parked up and across the street.

As he turns, he noticed a very handsome young man with a cast on his right arm carrying two large and lumpy brown paper grocery bags. The young man meets Skinner's eye, then rapidly turns away. Skinner strides toward him; when he touches the young man on his shoulder, he spins in surprise, half dropping one of the bags. The groceries cascade to the ground. Both Skinner and the young man kneel to catch the rolling cans of peaches and tomato soup and a large box of plastic garbage bags. The grocery bag has ripped, so when Skinner stands, he must juggle the stuff.

Looking sharply at the now-flushed man, Skinner asks, "Do you live near here?"

"No, sir. My car is parked down the road a bit; I picked up some groceries there," he points behind him. "I just want to go home. I heard, er. . . "

"I'll take these to your car."

"Thank you, sir." They start toward the car. The young man is perhaps four inches shorter than Skinner, rather slight in build, with very blond hair and eyes an unusual blue, thickly fringed with dark lashes. Skinner studies him carefully as they walk to the car.

"How did you break your arm?"

"Playing racquetball. I tripped over my own feet. Really embarrassing. And it's my right arm; I'm right handed, so I can't do anything now." He laughs self-deprecatingly. "Here's my car."

It's a Chevy Lumina, blue, in good condition; very clean inside and out. He awkwardly unlocks the passenger door, using his left hand, then swings the door open and gestures to Skinner. "If you'd just put the stuff down there for me." Skinner nods, and bends to drop it into the seat.

As he leans forward, Skinner begins, "I'd like to ask you a few questions," but feels a sharp prick in his hip, then falls and falls and falls.

When he awakes, his head throbs with his pulse, his eyes are gummy, and his mouth dry. He is nude, tied spreadeagle to a four-poster bed. The bed beneath him is covered in plastic trash bags; a large box of the bags sits on the dresser to his left. The window to his right has both blinds and curtains drawn; the blinds have been duct-taped to the wall. The red digits of a clock on the desk against the wall at the foot of the bed read 10:17. He has no idea if it's morning or night. The only light comes from the hall outside the bedroom. There are no sounds.

He ponders what to do. Before shouting for help, he tests each of the knots on the nylon rope tying him to the bedposts. Expertly made, pulling on them only tightens the knots. He'll have to talk his way out of this. If anyone comes to talk to him. If he doesn't die of dehydration, lying in his own urine and feces.

He is very afraid. He remembers Mulder's tired face, Scully's concern. They'll be worried about him. He knows that. The thought both comforts and distresses him. He suddenly longs to see Mulder's face again. This time, he would touch him. Rest a hand on his shoulder, caress his exhausted face, embrace him. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine embracing Mulder. He is filled with resolve not to die here, before seeing Mulder again. He twists as far to one side as he can and examines the ropes and the knots. He must solve this puzzle.

* * *

"Why are you doing this?"

The young man sets down the try he's carrying on the desk and turns to Skinner. He is beautiful, luminescent. Terrifying. Skinner tries to pull away as he nears the bed, but of course the ropes don't permit that. At the side of the bed near Skinner's face, the young man drops to his knees and rests his arms on the bed, propping his chin on his hands. He smiles.

"You are an *angel*," he tells Skinner, and Skinner sees by the look in his eyes, the expression on his face, that he believes this to be a fact.

"No, no," he protests, "I'm not. I'm no messenger from God. I'm just a man. I try to be good, but I fail so often, I've failed God so often . . ."

The young man gently shakes his head, smiling tenderly. "Yes, I know. I've been studying you. I know all about you. I can see that have betrayed your angel nature. I can see the angel in you, behind you. You have failed. That's why I'm here. That's what I do." He reaches out with his right hand -- no cast now; Skinner remembers that Ted Bundy used that same ruse -- and gently strokes Skinner's face. His beard rasps beneath those tender fingers. He outlines Skinner's lips, then taps him on the nose, almost humorously. "God will forgive you, I can see that, too. You will go home to God."

Skinner closes his eyes. This is worse than even Mulder knew. "You killed those women."

"Yes, I did. And many others who had betrayed their angel natures, just as you have. They had experienced and succumbed to carnal desires. You have, too. You are in lust." Skinner stares at him, in disbelief. "I can see almost everything. I can almost see whom you desire." He frowns sternly now. "It's a man, isn't it. The sin of Sodom." Skinner feels a blush heat his face, confirming the murderer's suspicion. "Sodomite. An angel in Sodom. I will save you, angel."

Quite suddenly, he leaves the room. Skinner's chest is heaving; his heart is racing and he can't catch his breath. He can't *think*. He must think his way out of this, or he too will be flayed like the women.

"No!" He cries out when the man returns. He's carrying a baseball bat. All the women had had their jaws broken, ah Christ, "No! Don't do this! I'm not an angel, I've never been an angel, I am a sodomite, God doesn't want me, you've made a mistake . . ." but the bat comes swinging down, as neatly as Jose Canseco ever swung, and he remembers no more.

* * *

"Where the *fuck* is Skinner?" Mulder demands again of Scully, as she stands at the head of yet another woman to autopsy. Behind her mask and visor, she is weeping. Both she and Mulder know where Skinner is.

The catalog of damage is almost identical to the others: broken jaw, done premortem. Vaginal and anal object rape. Lacerations, made both pre- and postmortem. The shoulder blades revealed through careful, almost surgical incisions, the skin neatly folded back. Bite marks, fingernail mark, scratches, semen everywhere. A breast removed.

Dana Scully feels disembodied. Scully, the pathologist, continues methodically, compulsively, with the autopsy while Dana observes from somewhere across the room. Sitting on that file cabinet perhaps. Dana watches as the pathologist, weeping silently, combs the victim's hair, looking for trace evidence. It's beautiful hair, long and silky and milk-white. Tears roll down the pathologist's face, seeping from under her visor into the mask. They taste salty, bitter.

Dana also observes Mulder, raging against the horrors perpetrated on these women, against the horror even now being perpetrated on their friend, Walter Skinner. He suddenly stops pacing, puts a hand to his face, gripped in silent pain. Dana's heart aches for Mulder. His friend is gone. Dana doesn't believe they'll ever see him alive again. He had disappeared at the latest dump site; his car was still there, but he wasn't answering his cell phone, Kim didn't know where he was, his apartment was empty -- he was simply gone. Gone.

Scully notices again that Mulder has grown thin these past weeks; his suit hangs on him. The hand across his face is bony, the cheekbones revealed through the fingers gaunt. As Scully the pathologist continues cataloging the damage done to the victim on the table, Dana the friend catalogs the damage done to Mulder, another victim. Every murder leaves so many victims. The deceased, friends, family, investigators, journalists. Unforgivable.

Scully continues. It's all she can do.

* * *

Mulder suddenly realizes how very wrong he's been. He is ashamed and terrified. He swallows, with difficulty, and wipes his eyes. When he can speak again, he says hoarsely, "Scully. Scully, I made a mistake." She looks up at him; her eyes are hard to read behind the visor. "There are other victims. There are men, too, and women who *aren't* blonde and blue-eyed. There's some other commonality, something I missed." It was in Skinner's dreams, he thinks but does not tell her. She nods silently. "I need to review other murders. I'll be in the conference room." Again she nods. He leaves.

Outside the morgue, heading back to the field office, he pulls out his cell phone. He'll need every resource the FBI can offer. He needs to start programs running that will seek out similar killings of men and women. He'd been fooled by the obvious similarities among these six women. He had failed. Skinner may die because he had failed.

By the time he's reached the field office across town, the first reports are trickling in. Oh, Jesus, this guy has been working for years, maybe five, all across the midwest. No one noticed. How could they not notice? The earlier murders were similar, but without the overkill. He's been escalating in his violence; the murder had moved from being an act to a process. Now the process of the murder, of torturing the victims, has become the purpose. The research will take hours, days, but Skinner doesn't have days.

Mulder knows what's happening to Skinner. He knows that Skinner is bound, that his jaw is probably already broken, leaving him unable to persuade the killer to let him go, yet free to scream his pain. He knows that the first cuts have been made, and that he's probably been sodomized with an object. Mulder presses his palms to his temples and closes his eyes, but he just sees more vividly the damage done to the bodies of the earlier victims.

One autopsy report of a male victim, murdered by the man who Mulder now believes holds Skinner, reveals that the victim had had his penis chewed off. Mulder simply cannot believe this; he reads and re-reads the report. Finally, he forces himself to look at the crime scene photos. He stares, at first numb with shock, and then with growing distress. He slowly bends over and neatly vomits into a trash can. He falls to his knees; cold sweat beading his body, and vomits again, gagging on his bile and saliva. Behind him he hears other agents and clerks. Someone brings him a damp paper towel; trembling, he wipes his face and mouth. Someone else helps him to his feet and then to a folding chair. A hand gently presses his head down, until it's between his knees. His ears buzz, his vision narrows to a dark tunnel. He closes his eyes and tries to picture Skinner behind his desk in his office, glaring at him over some procedural violation. He sees only a dead man, the skin of his back flayed into angel's wings. His guardian angel.

* * *

Skinner has stopped listening to the young man. His words hold only death for him. Instead, he remembers. He remembers his childhood, playing baseball and then football. He remembers his late father, and how much he admired him. He remembers going to church with his mother; she still believes deeply in a god he gave up long ago. He remembers being a soldier. He died once before; he died again recently; now he'll die yet again, finally. He thinks of his time in the Bureau and what he's learned and lost. He thinks of Scully and Mulder; of Scully's beauty and determination, her scalding honesty; of Mulder's lifelong, agonized quest, his scalding honesty. He pictures Mulder's face as he last saw it: tired, anxious, sad. Why hadn't he comforted Mulder? How foolish his fears seem now, now that he is dying.

The young man gently pushes Skinner to his right, to give access to his left shoulder blade. "Hold still," he whispers. Skinner shuts his eyes even tighter as the pain from his jaw, his rectum, his chest, and now his back strikes him. He shudders powerfully, and the young man grips him tighter. "You are so silent," he murmurs. "The others all screamed. You are as silent as my god." Skinner opens his eyes briefly; his last sight will be the taped window blinds. He shuts his eyes and conjures up an image of Mulder, sitting across from his desk, trying to seduce him into signing a 302 for some ridiculous x- file. That will be his last sight, he decides. Then the knife slides in deeper; he gasps in shock.

He remembers again his mother's religion. She believes that a god waits for him, a loving god who will heal and comfort him, and gather Skinner to Him in a place where he will one day meet again his loved ones. As the knife scrapes against his shoulder blade, he thinks one last time of Mulder. Then he gives himself to god.

* * *

Scully's been called away from the autopsy at Quantico to a DC hospital where Mulder is in the emergency room. Skinner's deputy director phoned her and asked her to go to the hospital; Mulder had been rushed there, unconscious and in shock. He'd collapsed at the Hoover while reading material linking past murders with the serial killer they'd been hunting.

She finds him pale, cold, and sweaty, sitting on the edge of a gurney parked in the crowded interior hallway; the emergency room is full of victims of an overturned school bus. He fidgets with the plastic id bracelet on his wrist. In the noisy confusion of the hospital, he doesn't hear her approach until she's at his side. Relief floods his face.

"Get me out of here," he pleads, "or I'm leaving anyway." She nods and heads to the nurse's station. There's no one there; all are busy sorting crying children, angry men, upset mothers. The air smells sharp, medicinal. She looks back at Mulder. He's watching her closely, biting his lower lip, leaning forward anxiously. She peers over the counter and flips through a stack of charts; finding his, she pulls it out and reads it. Exhaustion, dehydration, shock. Nothing surprising. Nothing she hadn't seen coming. She is ashamed that she hadn't done something earlier, even though she can't think what.

After glancing around again for assistance, she resigns herself to the inevitable and signs off, adding "M.D." after her name. It isn't official, it isn't even legal, but in all this confusion no one will notice.

Mulder is smiling as she walks back to him and takes his hand. "Oooh, Scully," he breathes, but when he jumps off the gurney, he staggers a bit. She catches him as best she can.

"Hey, hey there. Put your head down." He leans against her, bowing forward, his hands on his knees. "Breathe, Mulder. Take a long, slow, deep breath." After a moment, he slowly straightens his back. His eyes are red, his face wet. She thumbs away his tears and rests her hand against his face. "What happened, Mulder?"

"Skinner's dead," he tells her, sadly, confidently.

"No, Mulder. I'd know," she reassures him. "Do you trust me?"

He stares at her, then nods his head.

"Then come on. There's still time." She doesn't really know -- how could she know? But she needs to give Mulder the time to find Skinner and she doesn't know how else to do so. And she really does feel as though Skinner is still alive; in terrible pain, but still living.

Once in her car, she drives to a nearby McDonald's and orders burgers, fries, and shakes for them both. Pulling into an isolated parking space, she encourages Mulder to eat. She picks at the fries and sips her shake as he demolishes both burgers, all his fries, and most of hers. "Jesus," he exclaims, when he's finished. "I had no idea how hungry I was."

"Low blood sugar. I could feel it when I held your hand."

"You can *feel* low blood sugar?" But he's already shaking his head, ready to move on. "Okay. We'll start with the assumption that Skinner's still alive. He's injured, possibly dying, but not dead yet. The process of murder, rather than the murder itself, has become the goal of the offender, so he'll want to stretch that out as long as possible.

"We know *how* he kills. We know where, in the sense that it will be someplace private, someplace he feels safe in. And I know that he's a beautiful man, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, probably a little over thirty. He has a good job, but his performance has been impaired as he escalates into more and more violent murders. He's religious, or had religious instruction and is fixated on angels, as evidenced by the notes he leaves with the bodies. Once the murder is accomplished, the bodies are garbage to be disposed of. He may feel that he's freeing the spirits from their sublunary bonds. He sees his victims as deserving spiritual freedom."

Mulder shuts his eyes. Scully watches him closely. She sees him sink deeper into the pathology of the offender. She knows that what Mulder does is not magic, but she feels as though she were watching a wizard magick the answers from thin air. Beware of wizards, she tells herself, for they are subtle and quick to anger.

The chirp of Scully's cell phone brings him out of his reverie. The list of Christian Theological Seminary students who live in DC is available. Skinner's administrative assistant has it. "We'll be right there," Scully promises, and presses "off." "Let's *go*, Mulder," she instructs, collecting his strewn napkins and empty bag from the car seat.

The list isn't long. Kim has contacted Skinner's deputy director, who has drafted everyone in the division. A dozen or so agents and department heads and liaisons from the DCPD meet in Skinner's conference room, where photocopies of the list are handed out. They'll find this guy.

Mulder remains seated, in his usual chair in front of Skinner's desk. Scully sits next to him and watches him study the list. "We need more information, Mulder," she says softly. "Let's go to work."

He remains motionless, staring at the list. Scully realizes he is still in a kind of shock. She takes his right hand in hers; cold and slightly damp. His pulse is racing. In her peripheral vision, she sees the room clear out and the deputy assistant director watching them before leaving as well. When the room is empty, she gently squeezes Mulder's hand. "What is it?" she whispers.

For another long moment he remains frozen, not blinking, not moving, just staring at the list. Then he takes an enormous breath, almost gasping, and bends over slightly, as if in physical pain. Scully rubs his back with her left hand, never releasing his right. He sighs deeply. "I love him, Scully."

She almost smiles. "I know." He looks at her, finally, in surprise. She does smile then. "I know, Mulder. You guys --" She shakes her head. "It's okay. We'll get him back, and it'll be okay. I *promise* you, Mulder." He stares at her, silent. Finally he nods, unsmiling. "Promise," she whispers again. She rises and pulls him up; they have addresses to check.

* * *

Mulder and Scully haven't even reached the bureau parking lot when his cell phone chirps. DC police have cross-checked the addresses and believe they know the offender; a house on the list has had all its windows boarded up. Neighbors have complained about noises, and small pets in the area have disappeared.

Scully drives; the house is very near the Hoover, only a few blocks from First and L, where the most recent victim was dumped. The neighborhood is poor, the streets deeply potholed, the houses ill-kempt. She can't get near the home, so many agency and police cars and firetrucks, lights flashing, have haphazardly surrounded it. Climbing out of their car, it sounds to her as though every dog in DC is howling in concert with the sirens. Mulder begins to run, Scully at his heels. He runs faster, sprinting in near- panic, stopped only by the crowd of law enforcement and medical staff.

They push through the crowds of spectators and police, through bystanders and firemen, shoving and elbowing their way to the front door. Scully follows Mulder as closely as she can, but he is taller and bigger than she is; even in his weakened state, he forces his way through. At the door, however, he is stopped by the paramedics carrying out a stretcher. Skinner. Blood has filled the loose covering of the stretcher and pools behind him, soaking into the sheet covering him. He is as pale as death.

Scully takes Mulder's hand and gently leads him back to the car. She no longer cares about the offender. He's caught or dead, it doesn't matter, nothing matters but Mulder's horrified expression and Skinner's fragile link to life. She helps Mulder into the car, buckling his seatbelt for him, then pushing his head down between his knees. She rushes to the driver's side and takes off, hurrying after the ambulance. The rear view mirror reveals to her a handsome young man led out of the house in handcuffs, but she turns her attention back to the road. Fuck him. Fuck him. Please god, fuck him but let Skinner live.

* * *

Mulder's cell phone wakes him from an uncomfortable sleep in the waiting room on the surgical floor of the hospital where Skinner's been taken. Scully dozes on, exhaustion releasing her from the terrors of the day. So as not to wake her, Mulder walks quietly across the room before whispering his name in the phone.

"Fox?" It's Mark Muren, the psycholinguist. "I have something."

"It's over, Mark." A long silence follows Mulder's words, then:

"Ah, Fox. Thank God.. How?" But Mulder cannot speak. Mark intuits this and continues. "You did a great job, my boy; you know this. You saved so many lives --"

Now Mulder does speak, in a tense angry whisper. "Goddammit, Mark. He killed *dozens* and I didn't know. It was only after Skinner disappeared that I realized the victim profile I'd written was wrong."

"Mulder!" Scully's awake and scrambling up from her uneasy slumber to stand near him. He hears Mark's voice in his ear, asking about Skinner, but watches Scully. He is embarrassed by his intensity, by the fact that he has tears coursing down his face, by his sense of failure and defeat. Mulder knows he is walking very close to the edge of something, something that can swallow him up, something as dark and dirty as hell, as cold and comfortless as death. He stands motionless, Mark's voice in his ear, Scully's hand on his face, and he trembles on that ragged ragged edge.

Before he can fall, though, a door opens and a large woman dressed in blue scrubs walks steadily toward them. Scully turns, wrapping her arm around Mulder's waist, as the woman calls to her.

"Doctor Scully? I'm Siobhan O'Rourke, the anesthesiologist for Mr. Skinner. You are his next of kin?"

Mulder is bewildered by the question and more so by Scully's calm acknowledgment. The doctor continues. "Mr. Skinner is still unconscious but he's a strong and healthy man. We've had to wire his jaw and stitch his perineum and upper back, but considering the blood loss and abuse he endured, he is in remarkable condition."

The doctor looks at Mulder and he feels her gaze as an inquiry. "You are?" she asks.

Mulder doesn't know how to respond and turns to Scully. She takes the phone from him and says, "We'll call you back," and closes it; looks at the doctor and says, "Mr. Mulder and Mr. Skinner are partners."

Mulder thinks he'll need his jaw wired shut, too, it drops so fast and so far in surprise, but the doctor simply nods. "You'll be able to see your partner in about an hour, sir. We need to move him to another floor and get him stabilized and awake." She smiles and touches Mulder's arm. "Just a little while longer," she reassures him.

Mulder still cannot speak; now his throat has closed with tears of relief and gratitude. He nods his head and tries to smile.

When the doctor leaves them, Scully leads him to a chair; he obediently sits and looks expectantly up at her. Swallowing, he whispers, "Well?"

She blushes, now that they're alone. "Well. Well, you will be, if you aren't, and besides, how else could I get you in to see him?"

"Jesus, Scully." Mulder shakes his head, finally able to speak. "You are an amazing woman." She smiles and kisses the top of his head, then sits next to him.

"My mother thinks so."

* * *

Two days later, still in the hospital but out of intensive care, Skinner feels surprisingly lost. He puzzles over that sensation while meeting with his doctors, writing a report to the deputy director on what had happened, and examining himself in the bathroom mirror. Lost. As in no longer known, no longer possessed, no longer visible, unable to find the way.

Will this feeling of being lost remain with him, at his age and in his position? How can he recover? In a dark woods, I've lost my way, he thinks sadly while shaving. I am a poor, wayfaring stranger, he hums staring into the monitor of his laptop. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, he prays as he lays himself down for sleep again.

But that night he is graced with a vision. He finds himself in a forest, a mixed wood of oak, maple, and fir. The air is crisp, almost cold, and smells as sweet as an apple. He is seated in a small glade, a natural bowl, and stares up into an indigo sky lit with a million stars.

As he watches the stars slowly circle, an angel comes to him. An androgynous figure in a long white duster, with two sets of wings and long spiraling earrings that glitter with tiny stars of their own.

The angel smiles at Skinner, who suddenly realizes that he is a little boy again, maybe nine or ten. The angel is his late father, a loving but slightly forbidding presence. Skinner stares up at it, mouth open, eyes wide. The angel says nothing, but reaches out one hand to him. For a moment, Skinner thinks it wants him to take its hand; then he realizes that it wants him to look in that direction. He turns his head to see Fox Mulder sitting on his ratty leather couch, right there in the forest.

"Mulder?" he asks, but no sound emerges. Mulder looks at him, his heavy-lidded eyes sad and wise. Skinner understands that he's to go to Mulder, that Mulder can comfort him, perhaps even protect him. That Mulder can save him. He starts to rise to his feet and falls half-way out of his hospital bed. He bangs one knee on the railing and says, "Shit," quite clearly considering the apparatus in his mouth.

He looks at his watch; two in the morning. For a moment he can't think what day it is, then remembers it's Saturday. He eases himself down to kneel at his bedside, and then folds his hands and lowers his head. He remembers his decision to give himself to god when he had been convinced that he was dying. He thanks that god, his mother's god, and sends a tendril of inquiry about Mulder out to the cosmos. What should I do? he wonders.

No answer comes.

He sighs deeply and climbs to his feet. He needs to pee. Standing in front of the toilet, he ponders his dream. It is, he decides, an answer of sorts. He needs to see Mulder.

Sleep has retreated and he faces hours of quiet solitude. Impulsively, he decides to call Mulder. He is nervous but excited. He feels as though he were embarking on an enormous adventure.

Completely awake now, Skinner almost bounces on his feet as he dials Mulder's number. There is a long wait, or so it seems, before he hears the receiver picked up and a soft hello.

As if still in a dream, Skinner can see Mulder at the other end of the line. He's wearing pale yellow pajama bottoms, and is idly scratching his right shoulder. They share a few seconds of silence, and then Skinner asks, "Mulder? Would you come?" Without hesitation, without asking who this is, Mulder whispers, "I'll be there as quickly as I can."

And he does come quickly, probably running red lights all the way. Mulder enters the hospital room in less than an hour; Skinner is sitting uncomfortably in a beige naugahyde chair, staring out the window, reviewing the silver-chain dreams, the ones that had tied him to Mulder. He remembers how, as he stood in front of the vacant lot where the most recent female victim had been found, he'd discovered a thread loosely bound around his left wrist. When he'd broken it, the killer had selected him.

Skinner doesn't believe in precognition. Over the past twenty years, however, he has been forced to admit that things do happen outside what he considers normal; his experiences in Vietnam and his sleep disorder have proven that. But he is, he acknowledges silently, afraid to embrace these experiences. They remain outside, unincorporated, unintegrated into his life and worldview. Mulder is not afraid, though.

When Mulder appears in the doorway, Skinner rises quickly and puts his hands on Mulder's shoulders, too thin and bony after the ordeal, then draws Mulder to him. Skinner wraps his arms around him, a full-body hug, and rests his head against Mulder's face, hearing their beard stubble rasp. He feels Mulder relax into the embrace and hugs harder, sighing with pleasure and relief. Mulder begins to tremble and Skinner knows he is crying, releasing the weeks of tension and fear. So he will comfort and perhaps protect Mulder in return. For long minutes, he holds him, swaying slightly, warmed by the realization that he can comfort Mulder, that Mulder feels safe with him.

This is where he wants to be, he realizes. This is where his dreams have been leading him. From visions of terror and death to a reality of safety. Not an easy place to be, not with Mulder as his partner, not in the world they must live in, but his place.

Mulder finally is still. He sniffs loudly and wipes his nose with his hand, smiling shyly into Skinner's face. "You're back," he says softly. Skinner nods. "Does this mean we can talk now?" Skinner has to laugh, and shakes his head.

"Jesus, Mulder," he begins, but Mulder stops him by placing his hand gently over Skinner's mouth.

"For there is nothing hidden which will not be revealed, nor has anything been kept secret that it should come to light." They stare at each other, then Mulder slowly curls his fingers around Skinner's jaw, then to the back of his neck. Skinner pulls Mulder closer and they lean for long moments against each other, listening to the other's breath, feeling the other's heartbeat. He leans his forehead against Mulder's, enjoying the soft hair that brushes against him, the sleepy scent emanating from Mulder's body, the warmth of the other man's embrace. You are the way, he thinks, and idly wonders if that's blasphemous. He decides it is simply the truth. Mulder is his way.

* * *

Scully visits Skinner the next morning; she seems to him not at all nonplused to find Mulder asleep in the ugly naugahyde chair, stockinged feet propped up on Skinner's bed Skinner himself is awake, quietly reading Frances Mayes' _Bella Tuscany_. He smiles at Scully's entrance, then puts a finger to his lips: Don't wake Mulder.

Scully smiles back, and nods. She's brought him a bouquet, mostly godetia; they last a long time, and seem like masculine flowers. She sets the bundle down on a dresser and then, surprising him, bends over Skinner and kisses him on the cheek. He puts a hand to her face and they stand there, smiling in silence, for a moment When he releases her, she leans a hip against the bed and whispers, "How are you?"

He nods toward Mulder. "I'm fine. But he's exhausted."

She studies her partner, shaking her head. "He needs time off, sir; time to recover. I can," but she stops abruptly.

"What, Scully?" When she doesn't answer and won't meet his eyes, he asks again, "What can you do?"

She blushes and looks out the window. After a moment, still not meeting his eyes, she murmurs, "He loves you."

Skinner is embarrassed by her words. He's never said them to himself. He wonders how she knows, then drops the thought. He respects Scully's intelligence and integrity, more so than any other of his subordinates. Only Mulder matches her qualities; that's why they are such a remarkable team. He understands, not simply from her words but also from her embarrassment, that she certainly knows how he feels toward Mulder. She undoubtedly knows better than he how Mulder feels toward him.

Should he admit that he loves Mulder?

After several minutes, he asks, "As a doctor, what do you recommend?"

She looks at him at last, her clear blue eyes gazing straight into his heart. "Take him home with you. He needs rest and food. You are probably the only person in the world who can bul-- persuade him to eat and sleep." She pauses a moment to gather herself, then adds, very softly, "I can help."

At that statement, the two both look at the object of their affections. He slumbers on, oblivious to their concern and embarrassment. He looks marginally better asleep, but still too thin for a man his size.

When Skinner finally returns his gaze to Scully, he finds she is quietly observing him. His eyes drop to the gold chain and cross, just visible above the vee of her white cotton blouse. She touches the cross, gently lifting it away from her skin to adjust the links. "I dreamt about that," he whispers.

"My cross?"

"No, a chain. Only silver. It was around my wrist."

She nods, apparently unsurprised. "Chains bind. They link us to each other. In your dreams, did the chain bind you to Mulder?" Skinner feels his face heat with a deep blush, but he nods silently. Scully nods in return. "I could tell you two were bound together."

"You've been profiling us."

She pauses, staring at Mulder. "I had bad dreams," she finally says, her voice almost inaudible.

Skinner takes her hand, forcing her to look at him. "So did I."

She closes her eyes. Skinner sees that she, too, is exhausted, and he understands that this case has damaged all three of them in ways he cannot articulate. He feels responsible, and again vows never to loan Mulder out to VCU. The consequences are too grave, the recovery too difficult.

"Scully," he finally says, and she opens her eyes to turn her brilliant blue gaze upon him, curious, thoughtful, insightful. "You're right. I need your help."

She smiles at him, her megawatt smile that he cannot help but respond to. They say nothing more; there is nothing more to be said. They are linked by Mulder, as linked together as the chain around her neck. In silence, they watch Mulder sleep.

* * *

"We are the offspring of history, and must establish our own paths in this most diverse and interesting of conceivable universes -- one indifferent to our suffering, and therefore offering us maximal freedom to thrive, or to fail, in our own chosen way." Stephen Jay Gould, _Wonderful Life: The Burgess Shale and the Nature of History_

**Author's Note:**

> Information about serial sexual murderers and law enforcement responses to them came from _Serial Murder_ by Ronald M. Holmes and James De Burger. Studies in Crime, Law and Justice, volume 2. Newbury Park: Sage Publications, 1988; from _Serial Murderers and Their Victims_, by Eric W. Hickey. Pacific Grove: Brooks/Cole Publishing Co., 1991; and from _Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures, and Forensic Techniques_. Second Edition, by Vernon J. Geberth. NY: Elsevier, 1990.
> 
> I also downloaded and then lost the URL to Chapter Eleven, "Serial Sexual Killers: Your Life for Their Orgasm" from _Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream: A Forensic Psychiatrist Illuminates the Darker Side of Human Behavior_, by Robert I. Simon, M.D., an excellent although distressing article.
> 
> For information about dreams I turned to the FAQ sheet of the newsgroup alt.dreams; Freud's _Interpretation of Dreams_; and "Was Freud wrong? Are dreams the brain's start-up test? " in _The New York Times_ 1998 January 6: F6 (col. 1).
> 
> For information about angels, I found _The New Gnosis: Heidegger, Hillman, and Angels_, by Roberts Avens, which contains this inspiring, and terrifying, passage: "The realm of angels must not be imagined as being outside of time and space. Angels, like God, are the very ground on which we walk, even though, as Heraclitus would say, it 'loves to hide.'" In Hillman's words, our "angelic originality" is "forever possible" so long as "all terrestrial and material events" are "led back by the act of ta'wil (return) to the angelic ground in the white earth. For the angelic mind, the mystical is not in undifferentiated unity. . . . but in the minutiae particulars of things, in their phenomenal faces" (126). I also turned, of course, to the Old and New Testaments.
> 
> The title of my story, "in partibus infidelium," translates from the Latin to "in the country of infidels." Skinner's dream passages are headed "ora pro nobis," a plea to God to "pray for us."


End file.
